


walk a mile

by nagare



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Body Swap, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Multi, Romantic Comedy, established edelthea, set during a vague time during war phase
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21689941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagare/pseuds/nagare
Summary: Ferdinand wakes up in Edelgard’s bed. But in Dorothea’s clothes. And Dorothea’s body.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Ferdinand von Aegir & Dorothea Arnault, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 21
Kudos: 172





	walk a mile

It takes him all of one minute to size up his current predicament. No, this is not a bad dream. The sheets over him, the familiar and yet wholly strange ceiling, the pain he gets when he pinches his own cheek— they all feel _much_ too real, and he does not wake up. There is an abundance of red peeking out of the wardrobe, its door left slightly ajar. The imperial crown is perched perilously on the back of her chair. This is most undoubtedly Edelgard’s room. ( _Thank_ the goddess that she currently is not in it to further complicate things.) By extension, the sheets he had most unceremoniously tumbled out of with a yelp of surprise, must also be hers. The implications that he woke up in her bed of all things is not lost on him, and he would have immediately tried to backtrack his memories of the night before, if he had not realised something else even more terribly pressing at the moment. 

Something is wrong with his voice. 

“I…I am...” 

He croaks to a stop. It is most definitely not his voice. It is feminine, and though he is not used to hearing this nerve-wracked quiver to it, it is unmistakably that of the esteemed singer and former classmate and fellow wartime general, Dorothea Arnault. 

His confusion mounting, he realises the long locks fluttering into the side of his vision are a silky chestnut brown, and not the bright copper sheen they are supposed to be. Mere moments later, the fabric draped over his chest catches his eye. It is a pretty thing, a black satin camisole: one he has certainly never seen before in his life, and like any reasonable human being who has been thrust into this situation would do, he feels his throat go dry and shrieks, again. It is a sound so wholly unbecoming of Dorothea’s lovely voice, but Ferdinand currently has no time nor agency to think of such things. 

However, Ferdinand did not become one of Edelgard’s most trusted generals from idly sitting by when thrust into unexpected situations. No, as soon as the initial muddy haze of having recently woken up leaves his mind, and his panic slightly more subdued, he starts thinking of his next course of action. Though he feels his cheeks starting to flush a little, realising just exactly how _little_ Dorothea is wearing, he clambers up from the floor quickly, and scans the room for any sign of her clothes, his eyes desperately trying to avoid drifting anywhere too long near her exposed skin. Her dress is folded neatly under Edelgard’s bed, and he quickly dives for it, fumbling with the cloth. Though he frantically pulls it on, trying his best to not damage it in any way, he realises with mounting horror that there is a problem he does not know how to solve. Dorothea’s dress has quite the steep cut in her back, which means very little is left to the imagination. He is certain she does not wear her nightwear under her dress, but the very thought of taking it off and possibly seeing more than Dorothea would ever allow him to see is making him feel quite faint and dizzy. 

He swallows and pulls the dress over it, and though he tangles himself in the unfamiliar fabric a few times, he figures out which limb should go where, and eventually the dress sits snugly on his ( _her,_ he corrects himself meekly) body. The camisole is peeking out of the dress a bit, but he gently pulls the undergarment a little lower, tucks the straps under fabric that can hide it, and pray that no one will look at his back. The tights go on more more smoothly; he winces and apologises mentally to Dorothea when he hears the unmistakable straining of fabric, but after this debacle solves itself ( _if it ever gets solved, his traitorous and self flagellating mind thinks)_ he promises that he will reimburse any clothes he has ruined in the process. And hopefully Dorothea will also allow him to buy back her forgiveness for having been privy to a woman’s secrets, the affront to her dignity, and various other slights of his that he’s sure she still has a chip on her shoulder against. There is still the complicated corset left, which he frankly has no idea how to successfully put on, but figures that at the very least, he can press it to his body or hold it together with his hands if all else fails. 

Right, so now that he’s properly dressed, nevermind Dorothea’s bedhead right now, Ferdinand decides that he has to go find himself. The logical conclusion he has made is that no matter whatever sorcery must have caused this, if his consciousness in Dorothea’s body, then either she must be in his, or the original Ferdinand is currently a soulless husk right now. He swallows and tries to mentally prepare himself for whatever he may face, only to be sent nearly reeling backwards when Edelgard’s door suddenly swings open. 

_Oh, goddess._

Edelgard clicks the door shut behind her. She is dressed very simply, and out of her typical imperial garb; her hair is in a low ponytail, a thick black winter coat is draped over her shoulders, and _goddess,_ Ferdinand thinks, is it unfair for a woman this short to look so good in a simple pair of beige slacks. A pair of fierce lilac eyes meet Ferdinand-as-Dorothea’s, expressing a hint of faint surprise.

“Dorothea, you’re up.” 

Ferdinand’s throat goes dry. “Ah… Edel—Edie,” he fumbles, trying to remember the exact intonation Dorothea used when she affectionately called after Edelgard. “I was getting ready to leave just now,” he finally finishes, hoping that she doesn’t notice anything off about his performance. Goddess, the _mortification_ he would face. And possibly both Edelgard and Dorothea’s wrath.

She raises an eyebrow. “Looking like that?” 

Ah. The corset. And the bedhead. “...I was thinking about going back to my room to clean up as to not intrude on you any longer,” he finally finishes, settling for a half-truth. “And I might sleep in a bit longer.” 

Edelgard frowns. “You are… always welcome here. You know this.”

Ferdinand’s heart is racing a little, he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep up this little act before Edelgard notices something is wrong with her _lover_ for god’s sake, and—

The corset is gently removed from his grasp, and before he can say anything, Edelgard is behind him and already pulling it around his waist. His breath hitches; he can feel how close Edelgard is, her breath faintly tingling on his back, her fingers deftly working their magic. A moment later, she steps away, giving him a smile that is a little stiff but clearly laced with fondness, and Ferdinand’s stomach only sinks more, out of guilt. 

“If you really must... _dear_ , I will not keep you longer.” 

This is the kind of vulnerable expression she is only willing to show to her girlfriend, Ferdinand thinks, and here he is, the unintended recipient of it. It makes him feel like this is even more unforgivable than any glimpse of Dorothea’s thighs he might have gotten earlier, and he is at a loss on how he could ever rectify this. 

He smiles idiotically. He wants to mentally smack himself. “Thank you… Edie.” 

Once again, he makes to move, both so he can flee from his guilt and embarrassment, but once again, Edelgard catches him by the wrist.

“Wait, Dorothea— It’s quite cold today. You can return this later,” she says, quickly shrugging off her coat. She then places it on Ferdinand’’s shoulders, stumbling only ever so slightly when she goes on tiptoe to pat his shoulders down. 

It is _cute_ , and Ferdinand seriously does not know what kind of evil deed he has done to deserve such awful karmic retribution from the goddess. This is not his affection to enjoy, nor his love to be fawned over by, and he feels like nothing short of a thousand kowtows will ever make it up to either of these women. 

Ferdinand nods, pretending that he does not fail to meet Edelgard’s eyes again. Then, he turns back around to the door, hopefully for the final time. “You’re a really good partner,” he whispers, not entirely sure if he’s speaking as Dorothea, her lover, or as himself, out of admiration or jealousy, but he does not turn back around to check for her reaction, and scurries out. 

* * *

When Dorothea wakes up in a strange room, not smelling like lavender and paint like Edelgard’s should, nor the crisp waft of floral perfume that she keeps in her own, she merely closes her eyes. It’s not strange for her to hallucinate a stranger’s room in a sleepy haze every now and then, considering the multitude of roofs she’s woken up under. And then opens them again. 

She doesn’t have bangs. And even if she did, they aren’t supposed to be _orange._ Okay. Keep calm. This is probably just one of those strange, post-liquor hallucinations again. She shifts to her side, only to find that there is cloth where there shouldn’t be, since she doesn’t like to sleep in any clothing at all really, but she is most definitely wearing some sort of pants, and some kind of shirt. She grunts, and tries to shimmy them off and maybe go back to sleep, but the fabric brushes against something that _definitely wasn’t there when she went to sleep before_. 

Dorothea lifts the waistband of her pants. And laughs once, drily. Of course. Well. She wishes she could still call this a dream, but now that she’s wide awake with adrenaline, and the world’s been turned upside down, she might as well see how she can make the most of it. She doesn’t really know whether to be irritated or thankful that she’s somehow been spirited away in the night into _Ferdinand von Aegir’s_ body of all people, but she supposes it’s at least someone she knows and can easily reach. They can just bring it up to the professor, and like clockwork, she’ll work her mysterious magic and everything will be alright again. 

_Boys really do reek,_ she giggles to herself. Ferdinand in particular isn’t too disgusting or anything, but he’s always smelled strongly of herbs and leather, and his room is not much different. She hops off the bed, marvelling that the man actually bothers to undress and put on a whole new set of nightclothes just to sleep in considering how exhausted all of them feel when they come back from their missions, but she supposes that’s what the spoiled rich boy’s been taught to do all his life before this anyways and can’t fault him for sticking to his routine. It’s a little bit endearing. 

Dorothea rummages through his wardrobe for something not quite so tacky as his usual wear, because she really wanted to wrinkle her nose at his rather gaudy colour coordination sometimes. A nice and simple dress shirt will do, and maybe a vest. His nightclothes drop to the floor, and she studies the reflection in Ferdinand’s mirror. He’s grown quite a bit from his schoolboy days, she thinks. A little bit upwards, and quite a lot sturdier. 

Several scars run across his skin, and she runs her finger along them out of curiosity. Edelgard’s back has a lot of scars too, and Dorothea wanted to know if they felt strange when they were touched. She doesn’t have very many scars of this kind herself; she might be a decorated war general, but her job is to _burn_ , and to heal. Edelgard and Ferdinand, those kinds of people are the type to see close combat, take blows, personally watch as the last flicker of life leaves the eyes of the soldiers they cut down. It is admirable of them, a testament to their bravery and skill, and terrifying at the same time. She’s taken quite a few hits from enemy magic herself, since sometimes her barriers are not enough, but it’s not the same. Her own kill count is monstrous, of course, maybe rivalling theirs. She is no stranger to having blood on her hands. But she thinks she could not bear to look her targets in the eye. 

When she’s decided she’s seen enough, she buttons up all of Ferdinand’s clothes, and rummages around his desk for a brush. 

It’s so much easier to brush his hair than her own, which is prone to tangling. She is just the _tiniest_ bit envious, considering how hard she’s worked tirelessly almost every day since her show debut to look as pretty and presentable as possible, and here Ferdinand is, with long, flowing hair he decided to grow out of complete negligence and happenstance (or so he says) that barely needs any extra maintenance to keep bright and beautiful. Dorothea feels a twisted smile forming, and though she can see her own expression in the mirror, a strange contortion that looks wrong on Ferdinand’s face, she doesn’t know if she’s feeling more fond or bitter of the man at the moment. 

It’s hard to unlearn some of these negative feelings that have been festering for years. Jealousy, disdain, and yet still a need for approval that she was reluctant to ever admit to him. To her complete surprise, Ferdinand had willingly bared his neck to her, begging to be shown the error of his ways, willing to hear the grievances of the poor beggar girl he had hurt so badly in the past. Dorothea knew a responsible and compassionate man when she saw one, and even she could not continue holding onto this undeserved grudge that was long overdue for reassessment. 

Quite ironic that she’s now been quite literally placed in his shoes, maybe as punishment by the wicked goddess they were going to war against for the small amount of bitterness in her heart that she’d still been quietly holding onto for so long. 

She digresses. Ferdinand now looks more presentable than he’s ever been when he’d been in control of his own body, and Dorothea giggles to herself, finding amusement in the coy tone that Ferdinand’s voice takes. Well, she’d better find the professor, now. Or Ferdie himself, if he’s in her body as well. She wonders how he’d take it, waking up next to Edelgard. Fret endlessly? Bemoan the loss of his precious bloodline, even for a fleeting moment? She’ll surely have to press Edie for the exact details later, when this is all solved. 

* * *

Dorothea realises just how _early_ it is. She was too absorbed in her odd situation to have seen the time earlier, and now she wonders if the professor would even be awake at this hour. Ferdinand has some kind of inhuman circadian rhythm that insists he wake up at the crack of dawn, apparently, and the hallways are quite emptier than what she usually wakes up to. Right as she rounds the corner towards Byleth’s study, a deep voice calls out from behind her, the person’s footsteps suddenly in pace with her own.

“Ferdinand.” 

She doesn’t react at first, before it registers that she is currently in Ferdie’s body. 

“...Hubert?” She halts, and the taller man is practically an inch from barrelling into her. 

Hubert is dressed in his standard garb. Even on a day off like this, he chooses to walk around in his full regalia, and Dorothea grimaces inwardly, wondering if he even has anything else in his wardrobe. His gaze is quite level, and he seems to be studying her. Dorothea isn’t quite sure what to expect, and wonders if her cover had been blown already considering this was supposed to be Adrestia’s master spymaster she’s up against here. Not that it really matters much to her but… 

“Today’s teatime. I am afraid… it will have to be postponed for tomorrow. My apologies.” Hubert’s eyes drift to the side, as if he could not bear to meet her own.

“Oh,” she responds, blinking a little. 

...and that certainly wasn’t what she was expecting to hear! She’s quite used to hearing Ferdinand complain over meals about Hubert getting on his nerves, about how they argue day in and day out. For how every backhanded compliment Hubert is generous enough to dish out to him, he has three more insults up his sleeve. She wonders if this is supposed to be their codeword for starting another argument or something, and wonders further if she could even hold her own against Hubert in one of these debates. Ferdie might be brash and tactless, but he has a way with words and an unrelenting passion that draws others in, makes them want to listen. To argue, to build upon and challenge his ideas. 

Dorothea shrugs internally. Well, it’s not really her problem. She’ll let Ferdinand know about it if they can get this fixed before tomorrow. “It’s okay, Hubie.” 

A fatal slip of the tongue. The air between them goes cold, instantly. 

It takes everything she has to not clamp her hand over her mouth in horror and end up giving away the game, but once again Hubert’s unexpected reaction only serves to ignite her curiosity. The tips of his ears have coloured into a faint pink, and though his expression is quite normal, he’s staring at her with a strange intensity.

“That nickname…” 

“I’m sorry, I... have gotten used to hearing it from Dorothea. Does it… displease you?” It is a quick lie she cooks up, one that is not entirely unbelievable. Should she have said ‘I am deeply apologetic’ instead? Dorothea thinks it’s tiring pretending to be the stuffy Ferdinand, but now there’s something quite interesting in the air that she desperately wants to get to the bottom of. And thus, she cannot blow her cover. Not yet, at least. 

Hubert looks _lost,_ which is an expression that she hasn’t gotten to see. Well. Ever! And if Dorothea wasn’t already sworn to Edelgard, and cared more for great skulking beanpole looking men, maybe she’d think it was a little cute too. 

“I don’t dislike it, but I will admit it is… jarring,” Hubert finally grunts out. His words seem very measured, very guarded. Chosen so that they would not hurt Ferdie too much, but ambivalent enough, that he could choose either to continue using it, if he truly wanted, but if it was a genuine slip of the tongue, then they could blow over this whole thing and pretend it never happened.

Dorothea’s eyes widen with realisation. They have a _thing._ Or at least, Hubert does. For little ol’ Ferdie, of all people! _Goddess_ , Ferdinand had only recently stopped fretting over the possibility of every word out of his mouth being possibly offensive to her, of _course_ he wouldn’t have been brave enough to tell her about his _boy_ troubles. A little bit of a mischievous spirit rises in her gut, and though she knows better than to meddle in the affairs of other people, she just _has_ to know. 

She smiles blithely at Hubert, using Ferdinand’s biggest, baddest, trademark eager puppy eyes look she can. She is a songstress, after all, and if there is something she is obscenely good at, it is putting herself wholeheartedly into a role. And right now, she is Ferdinand von Aegir, dead set on playing Hubie’s (surprisingly existent!) heartstrings like a dainty little fiddle. “Then your comfort comes first, _dear,_ and we shall meet tomorrow. I will see you at teatime, Hubert.” Dorothea does a little bow, revels a little in the growing flush on Hubert’s face, and takes off.

“Dear,” Hubert whispers hoarsely under his breath. Dorothea pretends she does not hear it, and her grin only grows wider. 

* * *

Hubert is standing, dumbfounded still, in the hallway. After a moment, he collects himself, and takes a small notebook out of his breast pocket. He pages through it, his eyebrows only knitting further in confusion. In it, in small, scrawling script, notes on his relationship with the others, a small primer on things they have discussed in the past, a list of appointments he may have set up. Ferdinand’s page shows nothing remarkable; in fact, other than a tea time appointment, and some small notes in the margin which seem to be nothing except tea brands, there is startlingly little, compared to the detailed catalogue of ways to calm down Bernadetta, or the top ten spots Linhardt liked to take naps and would have to be dragged out of, etcetera.

His voice is barely audible, mostly muttering to himself. “Hubert didn’t… Hubert didn’t tell me Ferdinand called him ‘dear.’ Oh my.” 

* * *

Edelgard feels her nose itch, and she suppresses a sneeze. She continues to pore over the documents on her desk. They are reports from the Vestra house spy network, reports that even Edelgard herself is not supposed to be privy to. Of course, fearing something (not quite like this) would happen one day, Hubert had long lain down contingency plans for his spy network. Because Those Who Slither could shapeshift, he does not ask for his spy reports to be handed to him. They are to be left at a specific location, in cipher, and the next location he would pick it up would also be given in the exact same way. Thus, he has ensured that even though Lady Edelgard was walking around in his body right now, she would not get wind of any of this. 

"Take good care of Dorothea," his lady's distraught voice rings sordidly in his ears. He does not know how, and he feels quite lucky that she scampered off quite easily this morning. As much as he's learned all of Edelgard's mannerisms from constant and careful observation for two entire decades, he does not know what her love language is, nor could he ever hope to replicate it even if he tried. 

Hubert-as-Edelgard sighs. His underlings have reported nothing of note. Even Byleth didn’t know how to fix this. It was going to be a long day. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you very much for reading up until now. there is going to be a lot of "my boner is so confused right now" moments because of double (!!) bodyswap crimes, but i'm going to keep pretty strictly to these two pairings with no intersection between them, (i love ferdithea but thats not here or there beyond platonically this time) sorry!
> 
> re: use of pronouns: i will be largely referring to the character with the current POV with their actual pronouns, as well as anyone else they are aware of. i hope this clears up any confusion. thank you!


End file.
